


You're a Good Man, Phil Coulson

by Sinope



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Choose Your Own Adventure, Dom/sub Undertones, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, Fluffersmutter, Light BDSM, M/M, Multi, Multiple Pairings, Multiple Partners, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Polyamory, kinks and pairings depend on the path you choose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-04 15:32:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1082711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinope/pseuds/Sinope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are Philip J. Coulson: agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., mild-mannered spy, part-time resident of <strike>Stark</strike> Avengers Tower, and part-time babysitter for a team of agents investigating budding superheroes.  It's a busy life, but the rewards are worth it.</p><p>(A kinky, polyamorous "Choose Your Own Adventure" fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're a Good Man, Phil Coulson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [allofthefandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthefandoms/gifts).



> This is a "Choose Your Own Adventure" fic. For those who didn't read those books as a kid, that means that you'll get to make various choices for Phil, and the choices you make will influence the story that develops. I've used HTML to link the sections, so you should be able to click straight to the next part of your story without needing to scroll.
> 
> No trigger warnings should apply, but please let me know if anything needs tagging. A full list of kinks that appear in this fic (some only briefly) is in the End Notes.

**Start your story here.**

You are Philip J. Coulson: agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., mild-mannered spy, part-time resident of ~~Stark~~ Avengers Tower, and part-time babysitter for a team of agents investigating budding superheroes. It's a busy life, but the rewards are worth it.

Your team just completed your latest mission in New Jersey, and conveniently enough, it's a Friday night; you've told everyone that, barring emergencies, they have the weekend off. (Melinda just raised an eyebrow and asked, "Does that apply to you too?" You're afraid of the consequences if you don't do _something_ fun.)

The Bus is safely parked, and FitzSimmons is corralling the other members of your team toward the nearest bar. You'd be welcome, even if you are their boss, but you could also take the next train in to Manhattan; you haven't seen the Avengers all week. What do you do?

A) Join the team at a faux-Irish pub. (Go to 01.)  
B) Catch the next PATH train to New York City. (Go to 02.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**01**

You settle into a pleather-lined booth and enjoy the hum of conversation among your team, who're getting progressively drunker as you sip a single beer. As the evening continues, inhibitions loosen; you're pretty certain that you catch Skye eyeing you flirtatiously, and that teasing ghost of a touch at your leg, under the table, has to be Melinda.

You can't say you're not tempted -- you've managed to gather an extremely attractive set of agents, Camilla's snide observations notwithstanding -- but you know nothing's going to happen. These are agents under your direct supervision, and fraternization regs aren't a joke at S.H.I.E.L.D. Still, you enjoy your evening, and when you stumble back to your solitary bunk in the Bus, you don't feel too much regret.

 

The End.  
Start over?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**02**

As you sit in the train to the City, you place a quick call to JARVIS. As always, the AI is accommodating; you're pretty sure he has a soft spot for you. " _Good evening, sir,_ " he answers, voice crisp and resonant through your Bluetooth headset. " _Shall we expect you at the Tower this evening?_ " Because of course Stark's found a way for JARVIS to track the movements of the Bus; you're too used to his near-obsessive surveillance to feel that annoyed.

"Looks that way," you respond instead. "Where is everyone tonight?"

" _Masters Stark and Rogers are in the Lower East Side, combatting an unusually well-armed team of bank robbers. Agents Romanov and Barton are in the medical wing of S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, following their return from a S.H.I.E.L.D.-classified mission. Ms. Potts is at Avengers Tower in an international teleconference, and requested that she not be disturbed. Mr. Banner and Ms. Foster are in London to present papers at a conference for theoretical physics, and Prince Thor has accompanied Ms. Foster to the conference._ "

You spare a moment to consider how much larger (and more interesting) the Avengers have made your personal life, and how little you regret it. The creak of the train sliding into the station interrupts your thoughts; you'll need to decide soon which direction to go. Where do you head?

A) The Lower East Side, at the site of the robbery. (Go to 03.)  
B) S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, off Times Square. (Go to 04.)  
C) Avengers Tower, in Midtown. (Go to 05.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**03**

You exit the subway into the kind of surreal situation that's become all too common in your life. A barely maintained perimeter of police surrounds a battlefield of chaos around the bank entrance; SWAT team members and Captain America lead the fight against an army of Nutcracker figurines, large holiday decorations that appear to have been magically animated and armed. Iron Man circles from above, incinerating nutcrackers and firing at the human bank robbers every time they attempt to take advantage of the chaos and escape.

You switch your Bluetooth headset to the localized Avenger comms. "This is Agent Coulson," you say. "I am on location and able to assist."

You can see Captain America turn to spot you; a tiny rifle shot grazes his cheek in the moment of distraction, and you can hear the quick intake of breath. "Get out of here, Agent," he orders. "Situation is under control."

Iron Man and Captain America don't seem to be losing the battle, but the sheer numbers of the nutcrackers make it look like the fight's far from over. What do you do?

A) Unholster your sidearm and jump into the fray. (Go to 06.)  
B) Attempt to coordinate the fight from a distance. (Go to 07.)  
C) Follow orders and head to the safety of the Tower. (Go to 05.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**04**

As you stride through S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters, you receive a couple of nods and far more blank stares; you were never very recognizable by sight. Officially (at least, as far as the WSC knows), Agent Coulson is still dead, but everyone who knew you has gotten used to your occasional presence here.

When you enter the medical wing, you see a familiar face in a familiar long black coat, leaning casually against the receptionist's desk. Nick Fury's face looks troubled, as usual, with the weight of the world's secrets, but when he notices you, he cracks a grin. "Cheese! There you are. Got something for you from the kids in R&D."

He beckons you back toward the elevators, but you hesitate and incline your head to the patient wards. "Barton and Romanov?"

"Are just fine. They'll be released within the hour." He casts you a pointed look. "They're also not your job any more."

You find yourself horrifyingly close to a blush. Once, not too long ago, you would've considered that job your top priority; these days, you don't hesitate to admit, if only to yourself, that your interest in them is far from professional. Then again, Nick won your loyalty years before you'd even heard of the Hawk and Widow. Which way do you go?

A) Follow Nick back to his office. (Go to 08.)  
B) Insist on visiting Clint and Natasha. (Go to 09.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**05**

It's been a difficult journey, but you've had to force yourself to step back from the Avengers professionally. You're no longer their handler or S.H.I.E.L.D. contact, and you need to trust them to do their jobs on their own. (Besides, if they _were_ your responsibility, then some of your more extracurricular activities would be extremely unethical.) You put together the Avengers to be the best, and you need to trust their competence.

You still feel a twinge of worry as you settle into the common room with a book, but JARVIS keeps you updated on everyone's movements. Clint and Natasha have been released from Medical with relatively minor injuries; Tony and Steve are just now finishing up their fight. Even with transit time, they should be returning before long.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a quiet message from JARVIS, informing you that Pepper has finished her teleconference and would welcome your company. You dust yourself off, perpetually a little self-conscious in her elegant company, and head to join her in the penthouse.

Go to 10.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**06**

You may normally be good at taking orders, but you're bad at leaving your friends behind. You unholster your sidearm, slip through the police lines, and start shooting nutcrackers. Splintered wood flies through the air, and you can feel metal-tipped jaws gnawing at your legs, but the homicidal toys steadily decrease in numbers, and you feel confident that the robbers haven't had a chance to escape.

From Rogers' tone of voice, you suspect that he's not very happy with your decision, but he focuses radio communication on taking down the hostiles swiftly and efficiently. Soon, the only combatants are the team of robbers, still firing their energy beams, and a few stray hobbled nutcrackers.

"Ready to surrender yet, morons?" says Iron Man, and you hold your breath for a moment in hope for a quick resolution.

"Yeah, right, asshole!" a robber yells, aiming his energy gun at Iron Man. In the course of a split second, you watch the beam hit Stark dead-on, bounce neatly off his armor, and fly straight at you.

Somewhere distant, you can hear a voice yelling your name, but you're already tumbling to the ground. A searing pain in your shoulder drags you inexorably into unconsciousness.

Go to 16.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**07**

You trust Steve's expertise, but you also don't want to abandon Steve and Tony. (Maybe it's a hint of residual guilt over the fact that they had to tackle the Chitauri without you; the video clips of Iron Man plummeting out of the sky still twist at your gut.) So you back away, rush to the nearest building, and take the elevator to the top. A bit of easy lock-picking later, and you're standing at the edge of the roof, watching the fight from above. From here, you can see patterns in the nutcrackers' movements; they seem to be programmed with a limited number of fighting subroutines, and the cues that trigger each subroutine aren't hard to figure out.

Turning your radio back on, you relay the information to the others, suggesting a few tricks to feint and catch the nutcrackers off-guard. With your observations and the advantage of eyes from above, Steve and Tony quickly turn the tide of the fight. The bank robbers try to resist when Tony corrals them, but their energy weapons bounce right off of his armor, and they're in handcuffs before you leave the roof.

Local police can handle the criminals from here, so you see both Steve and Tony walking towards you when you approach the scene of battle. Steve's cowl and Tony's mask are both down; Steve's hair spikes up in tufts like a baby chick's, and only the troubled look in his eyes stops you from indulging in memories of running your fingers through it. Both Steve and Tony have faces that radiate their emotions clear as neon signs. Steve's clearly unhappy that you didn't go away as ordered, but grateful for the help you provided; Tony's still thrumming with battle adrenaline and watching the two of you with interest to see if things get explosive.

You meet Steve's eyes, calm but not defiant, and stand tall so he can see your lack of any injury. Slowly, his frustration fades into conciliation. "That was some good intel you provided for us."

"Always happy to help," you say, and you let a few of your own emotions show in your face: the honor and privilege it is to fight with Steve Rogers, Captain America, who never fails to sweep you away with his fundamental decency. When Steve ducks his head slightly and blushes, you know he's received the message.

Together, talking battle tactics as you walk, the three of you return to the Tower.

Go to 11.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**08**

You follow him into the elevator, noting a certain looseness in Nick's limbs that you haven't seen in a while. Despite the never-ending string of crises that S.H.I.E.L.D. handles, nothing since the Battle of New York has been quite as devastating, and it's given you both the chance to catch your breaths. Relaxation's always been a good -- and rare -- look on him.

Nick ushers you into his sparse office, then produces a large box, wrapped in hideously tacky wrapping paper. "Happy fucking holidays. Go on, open it."

Practical jokes are something you expect from Clint, not Nick, but you still unwrap the box with some hesitation, wondering what's the catch. It takes you a minute to recognize the clear, rigid plastic box, marked only by a hermetic seal at the top and some concealed machinery in the base, but then you can't stop grinning. "You got me a damn aquarium. The team will love it."

He shrugs gruffly, but you can see the amused crinkle at the corner of his eye. "The techs say that it'll survive a plane crash _and_ months without maintenance, so any fish are going to be safer than your own ass is." You don't miss the note of protectiveness in his voice.

"That's what I've got my team for. They're good kids."

"They're still kids."

You smile at the frown wrinkling between his brows. "You're cute when you go mother hen on me."

"'Cute,' he says," Nick mutters. Then he glances out the window for a minute. "Heard you're grounded for a few days."

"The team earned some leave."

"Mmmm. Michelle's with her mom this weekend." Nick's eye meets yours again, and his lips curve into a tiny, enticing smile.

Nick doesn't say anything more -- he never does, outside the privacy of your homes -- but you know the implication: his house is empty, and you'd be welcome in it. The only question is whether you want to take Nick up on the offer. What do you decide?

A) Follow Nick home. (Go to 12.)  
B) Decline the offer graciously. (Go to 09.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**09**

Nick's company is tempting, but you know you won't be content until you've seen your former assets for yourself. "Another time," you say with some reluctance; Nick looks a bit disappointed, but you know he understands.

You stride quickly to the appropriate room in Medical; Clint and Natasha are frequent enough visitors that the nurses point you in the right direction without a word. When you pause at the medical charts outside their room, you discover that Clint's the only actual patient; Natasha must just be there for support.

Entering the room, you let the door close behind you with a click. (All the Medical patient rooms are lockable and soundproof, a precaution for classified post-mission debriefs.) Natasha lies beside Clint on the bed, her fingers idly playing with his hair, and she's whispering something to him that makes a delighted grin break out on his face.

God, you're glad to have seen that grin return to your life.

"Must be my lucky day," Clint says. "I've got _two_ sexy secret agents to help break me out of Medical. You're going to help, right?" He pouts at you like a disconsolate puppy, and Natasha rolls her eyes, hopping up from the bed.

"He's your problem now. Docs say they need to wait for a few blood tests to come back before they let him go, and I've practically had to sit on his head to keep him here, the отродье."

You take a moment to survey Clint's state. Numerous small bandages dot his skin, covering up what look like minor cuts and bruises; his wrist bears a removable brace, so probably nothing worse than a sprain or minor fracture; his face looks bored and a tad playful, not in actual pain. "Go on home," you tell Natasha. "I'll handle it."

"I don't doubt that," she murmurs with a hint of a smirk, but heads out of the room without further objection. She's not subtle about turning the privacy lock in the door before she leaves.

Go to 14.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**10**

"Phil," Pepper exclaims happily when you join her; she rises to kiss you, first on the cheek and then, more lavishly, on the mouth. "You're here!"

"So I am," you return, and you can't help but mirror her smile. You've grown to like (even love) each of the Avengers, but Pepper's always been the one who feels closest to yourself, comfortable in efficiency and loyal to a fault. "So," you say, "what can I do for you?"

"Well, if you insist . . ." Her voice trails off as if shy, but you've played this game too many times to fall for the superficial naiveté. Pepper's superb when assisting others, but she thrives most (and enjoys it most) when she's the recipient of service. For her, that's something you're happy to give.

Pepper returns to her leather-lined office chair, and you kneel in front of her, tilting your head down in respect. Then you start by pulling off her high heels, setting aside the exquisite Manolos, and wrapping your hands around each foot in turn for a thorough massage. You take your time, enjoying the way that you can feel the tendons and muscles grow relaxed and loose as you knead them deeply; the blissful hums from above are more than ample reward.

A few minutes in, Pepper asks you to pause. Then, with a sly smile on her face, she slides her hands under her skirt and unfastens what you now realize were thigh-high stockings, clipped to a lovely garter belt (and nothing else). She rolls the stockings down her legs, one by one, and offers you one newly-bare foot. "You can keep going," she says, so you do.

Once both feet and ankles have been massaged into tenderness, you place a kiss on each foot and glance up for permission. Pepper nods. You kiss her again on one ankle, then up further to the base of her calf, kissing a slow trail up her silky-smooth legs. Soon your path leads you between her thighs; she scoots to the edge of her office chair, allowing you better access, but stays otherwise still, so that you have to bury your face in her skirt to kiss and lick at the edge of her cunt; the air is damp and hot and pungent with desire.

(You're hard, so fucking turned on, but this isn't about you right now.)

Kneeling at Pepper's feet, you lick and nibble and suck her relentlessly, savoring the thrill of how the slightest twitch of your tongue can make her writhe and clench around you. Before too long, she's coming in a rush of shudders and sticky juices and taut, high-pitched whimpers, and you let her grind against your face until she's fully sated. Then she pulls you upward and kisses you again, sucking the taste of her own cunt from your lips. "That was perfect," she practically purrs, and you smile against her mouth.

"My pleasure," you say.

"Oh no," she says, "that'll happen later. We've missed you here, and I'm going to make sure that everyone shows you just how much."

" _I'm nothing special,_ " you want to say, but you don't. The others have made it clear that they value you, however you think you compare to superheroes and superhumans, and you've lived through enough losses to know not to question a good thing. So instead, you just smile and say, "Can't wait."

Go to 19.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**11**

When you arrive at the Tower, JARVIS has already ordered dinner for the team, but Tony casts a speculative glance at you. "You hungry?"

"Not especially," you answer, because you _know_ that look in his eyes. Steve starts to turn away, but Tony grabs his arm.

"You too, Capsicle. Victory sex just isn't the same without our glorious leader, you know?"

Steve blushes a little -- he's still adapting to how openly people discuss sex in this century, especially the kind of pansexual, kinky, polyamorous sex that Tony tends to get up to -- but smiles anyway. The expression transforms his face, makes him look young and eager and utterly debauchable. "I could be persuaded," he says, and Tony fist-pumps in triumph.

You make your way to Tony's bedroom; until the Tower has a designated orgy suite (something Tony keeps threatening to build), his bed is the most comfortable and spacious, especially when more than two bodies are involved. "So, Agent," Tony says, already retracting his armor to reveal the thin black bodysuit below, "since you've been calling the shots today, tell us how you want us." The smirk in his voice is tinged with sarcasm, but below it is a subtler cue that you've learned to recognize -- the one that says that yeah, Tony Stark really does want to be protected and commanded and told which way's up, and once you get him into that headspace, he'll only beg you for more.

So that's Tony, then. You turn to Steve, who's been watching the exchange with amusement. "Sound good to you?" you ask.

He shrugs, grins, and starts to pull off his uniform. "I'm game." Steve's what you'd call a switch, and what he'd call "flexible"; he can order and punish and subdue like the commanding Dom that Captain America personifies, but you like him best like this -- rumpled and eager-eyed, all his strength willingly given as submission. He falls to his knees, stripped without shame to nothing but his old-fashioned briefs, and you can't imagine anything more beautiful.

So you pull off your jacket, roll up your sleeves, and slip into the persona of unhesitating command that you've perfected on and off the job. "Tony," you state calmly, "clothes off. Down."

It's damn gorgeous to see him obey without a word.

You spend the evening enjoying the two of them -- sometimes with each other, sometimes pleasuring you. Your favorite moment has to be the time when you have Tony tied to his bedframe, hands bound but legs free to fuck himself on the thick dildo you've provided him. You make him watch as Steve jacks himself off, the motions exquisitely slow by your command; Steve has one hand stroking his own cock, tantalizingly slow, while the other pinches at his nipples and teases his balls. You've got three fingers deep in Steve's ass, pressing relentlessly at his prostate, as you tell him that the rules are simple: he can come whenever he wants, just as long as Tony comes first, without a single touch to his straining cock.

When Tony finally rides the dildo to an anguished orgasm, followed within milliseconds by Steve's release, all you can think is that you're the luckiest son of a bitch you know.

 

The End.  
Start over?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**12**

Time with your team is always a pleasure (albeit sometimes a frustrating one), but a weekend with Nick is a rare luxury. You have to wait around headquarters for another hour while he finishes work, so you swing by Medical to confirm that Clint's behaving in Natasha's care.

Once Nick's ready, the two of you take the subway back to his spectacularly secure apartment in the Lower West Side. You've met Michelle before, introduced as a friend of her father, but you tend to visit only when she's not around. Partly, her mother thinks that she's too young to understand that her father has multiple "special friends," of varying genders; partly, her presence wouldn't be very conducive to letting Nick fuck you thoroughly on every surface of the apartment. Which you absolutely intend to accomplish.

As soon as the door's locked behind you and the security system's engaged, Nick pushes you up against the nearest wall with a fierce, demanding kiss. "I like having you where I can see you," he says into your lips. "Wish I could keep you under my desk all the time, there to sort my reports and evaluate my assessments and suck my fucking cock whenever I asked."

You shudder and buck up into him, your dick pressed near-painfully between his hips and your own. It's good to have your own team, yes, but you miss being Nick's good eye at his side. And the fantasy he describes is one that you've entertained on your own more than once, accompanied by memories of the rough, sure grip of his hands. "Me too," you say, and kiss him harder.

The two of you do make it to the bedroom eventually (on your hands and knees on the bed, Nick taking you from behind) -- and then the living room (bending Nick over the sofa and eating out his ass until he's shuddering and cursing and begging), and the kitchen (savoring his homemade lasagna with such vocal pleasure that he pulls you up onto the table and sucks your cock for dessert), and the shower (rutting up against each other lazily, wet and soapy and mostly sated, taking pleasure in the familiar warmth of Nick's skin). Even when life interrupts on the next day, and Nick has to head back to HQ to handle a minor crisis, you use the opportunity to relax, spending leisurely hours lying on his couch and reading his trashy Tom Clancy novels.

(You take a certain pleasure in the knowledge that you're the only other person Nick trusts alone in his own home.)

At the end of the weekend, you can hear your team whispering behind your back about how you look better-rested, younger. You don't mind the chatter; it's one of the best vacations you've ever had.

 

The End.  
Start over?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**13**

You are in a maze of twisty little passages, all alike. There is a man here, dressed in red and black spandex; you've never seen him before.

He rolls his eyes. "Coulson may not have met me before, but _you_ have, right? I'm talking to _you_ , the nerd reading this fic -- you've totally encountered Deadpool before! Comics, cosplayers, fanfic, that addictive Facebook game, something? Yeah, I thought so. Wade Wilson here, ready to rock your bonus scene."

You blink. This is getting strangely meta. Maybe you shouldn't have cheated and scrolled to a section without following the path of links.

"Whatever, it's cool," he shrugs. "It's not like the author let me appear anywhere else in this fic. And honestly, Phil's way too straight-laced for me, no matter how many kinky polyamorous sex hijinks he gets up to. But as for _you_ . . ."

A Barry White track starts playing in the background, and Deadpool twists into an anatomically improbable pose, demonstrating contortions worthy of the Hawkeye Project, and flutters his eyelashes. (Yes, you can tell, even though the mask covers his eyes.) "Let's just say I'm always up for a little reader-on-character action. And did I mention that underwear totally ruins the lines of my suit?"

Fortunately or unfortunately for you, before he can show you anything further, the scene reaches

The End.  
Start over?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**14**

You approach Clint, sitting down on the corner of the bed and placing your hand gently over his uninjured wrist. The simple touch, a reminder of all the times you've held down his wrists with more force and intent, is enough to make you both shiver. "So," Clint asks, "you going to punish me for trying to leave early, or distract me until it's time to go?" His dark, hungry gaze belies the light tone of his words.

"I don't think they're mutually exclusive," you reply. Your fingers trace up his arm, seeking out a superficial but tender bruise. When he's healing from real injuries, Clint isn't always in the right headspace for painplay, so you're always careful to start slowly and gauge his reactions.

You dig your thumb into the bruise and twist. Clint's immediate gasp might indicate either good or bad pain, but the needy whimper in its wake makes it clear what he wants. His entire body seems to melt fractionally into the bed, and the corner of his mouth twists upward. "Missed you," he says.

"Missed you too," you say, because you have. Truly, you miss all of the Avengers in their own ways, but Clint will always be _yours_ like no one else, and you still haven't gotten used to the absence of his voice over the comms with your new team.

"Here's what we're going to do," you tell him, rubbing the bruise with your thumb in small, steady circles. "You're going to keep your arms at your sides, on the bed; if you move them, I stop everything I'm doing. Got it?" He nods mutely. "I'm going to touch you however I want, wherever I want." Then you lean fractionally closer and meet his eyes. "You can come if you can't hold off, but I'm not leaving a mess here for the staff to clean up. So if you come, I'm going to make you lick up every drop of it, and you're going to thank me for it afterward. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Clint says, as much a plea as a statement.

You smile. "Good boy."

Then you set yourself to the delectable task of pushing Clint from the bliss of arousal to the relentless torment of pain, and then back, and then again, over and over. You pinch and twist his nipples, scrape your nails down his thighs, brush the tip of your thumb over the slit of his cock with the lightest of pressures, until he's a shuddering wreck. When he's trembling so hard that you don't think he can even tell pleasure from pain any more, you stand up and find a tube of medical lubricant in a nearby drawer (no, this isn't your first time doing this), pull on a latex glove, and slick up your fingers. "Up," you say, and position a spare pillow underneath his now-bare ass.

You slide your index finger into his hole without hesitation, enjoying the slight whimper it draws from Clint's throat, and curve it unerringly to press at his prostate. "I love you like this," you tell him, feeling his hips twitch each time you stroke over the sensitive spot. "You're mine, my perfect Hawk, the best and most beautiful thing I've ever collected. I'm never going to leave you alone again." You add a second slick finger, pumping in and out to give his body a chance to adjust. There's something deliciously subversive about all this; you're still in your Dolce suit, and he's naked for you, with only the latex glove as boundary between his wantonness and your self-control. "Mine," you repeat, almost to yourself, and slide a third finger into him -- he's not quite ready for it, you know, but you want to see him clench and whimper at the painful stretch of it, and he obliges beautifully.

Before long, you have Clint exactly where you want him, loose and practically fucking himself on your fingers, begging to come between gritted teeth.

"You don't need to beg," you say, your voice as calm as your fingers are forceful inside him. "You just need to accept the consequences."

"Fuck you," he groans. Making Clint lick up his own come is a punishment, not an enticement; you know it's not his kink, not something he enjoys in itself. But what he does enjoy -- what you both enjoy -- is the humiliation of knowing that he'll do it anyway, just because you told him to, because you drive him so crazy with want that he'll do anything for release.

Soon enough, that's exactly what happens; a barrier somewhere in Clint breaks, and he's coming hard, crying out loud enough to echo off the room's walls. With one hand, you massage every drop of come out of him; with the other, you catch it neatly, a sticky whitish mess in the palm of your hand. You give him a moment to catch his breath and shudder through a few aftershocks, then hold your palm to his mouth. "Lick," you say, and Clint grimaces, but he obeys.

"So good for me," you soothe him, and strip off the gloves quickly so you can stroke his face and feel his skin. "So good."

You lose track of time then, just a little; the world settles down to Clint, nuzzling your hand like a contented kitten. When the nurse knocks on the door to deliver the test results, you find yourself sad to see the moment pass.

Go to 15.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**15**

Soon enough, Clint's been formally discharged from Medical, and the two of you head to the Tower together. When you arrive, you find that everyone else has gotten there first, and they've already started in on the Italian delivered for dinner. Pepper and Tony sit at one end of the common table, their slices of pizza forgotten in a debate about StarkTech R&D Natasha's telling Steve a story that, based on the way they both look up at you and smirk, probably has to do with your recent activities with Clint. You refuse to blush.

You and Clint assemble plates of food and settle down at the table, where Tony and Steve regale you with the tale of how they defeated an army of robotic nutcrackers, the only casualty a panel of Tony's armor dented beyond repair. (In this case, "regale you" consists of Tony making dazzling claims about their courage, skill, and all-around good looks, while Steve interjects occasional clarifications to bring things back to reality.) Regardless, the situation sounds well-handled. You suppose that they don't really need you here, if they ever did; it's an honor to have as much access to them as you do.

After dinner, Clint and Natasha declare that they're both calling it an "early night," with Natasha casting you a gaze of unmistakeable intent. (From the smirk on Tony's face, you know that you're not the only one to understand the invitation behind the comment.) You know you'd be welcome to join them, but you also know they'll be fine with each other.

While you're considering the possibility, Steve pulls you aside for a private word. "You seemed quiet during dinner," he observes. "Everything all right?"

"It is," you nod, but you know the words lack real enthusiasm. Steve just waits for you to explain. "It's hard sometimes, being out of the loop. I don't like seeing my people get hurt because I'm not around." You balk at stating the final part: that you're even more afraid of the inverse, the possibility that in a world of superheroes, your own hard-learned skills can make little impact.

"I know it's not easy," Steve says, then ducks his head down in a show of bashfulness. "I could try to help."

Now you have two options on your plate; you could head to Clint's room, or take Steve up on his offer of reassurance. What do you do?

A) Join Clint and Natasha in the bedroom. (Go to 17.)  
B) Request Steve's company. (Go to 18.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**16**

You wake up to the antiseptic smell and thin cotton sheets that signal the medical wing, and you automatically run through your mental check-list for these situations, while your eyes still rest shut.

Do you remember what sent you here? Yes.

What are you hooked into? You can feel an IV in your wrist, but nothing's intubating your lungs, and there's no loud beep of a heart monitor. A good sign.

How do you feel? Tired and pleasantly floaty, which means there's more than saline pumping through that IV. Your shoulder aches deeper than the meds can entirely erase, though, so the injury's pretty bad. You try lifting your arm and wince immediately at the burst of sharp pain that results.

"Hey, hey, relax," Clint's voice soothes. You drag your eyes open and see him seated next to the bed, his arms and head resting on the pillow next to you. He's not in great shape himself, between the bandages plastered along his face and the cast around his wrist, but all the damage looks superficial. When he notices you observing him, he gives you a small smirk. "You know, next time you want to visit me in Medical, you can just ask for a visitor's pass." Then his smile fades. "Doc says you'll be fine, but stop getting yourself hurt, okay? I'm getting too old to spend all my time worrying about you."

You open your mouth to reply, maybe tease Clint a little about how many hours you've spent worrying about him, but the look in his eyes steals the words from your lips. Beneath the fond words, he's scared for you. You knew that your death and return had been hard on all the Avengers, but especially Clint; still, sometimes you forget just how much of his heart he's entrusted to you.

(It's a terrifying responsibility, when you know you're no superhero yourself, and it took weeks of persuasion on his part to get you to believe it. But after seeing how your "death" shattered him, you can't doubt it any more.)

So instead you move your uninjured arm towards him and squeeze his knee, brief but reassuring. "I'll try to keep myself out of fights that aren't mine. Promise." It's not much of a vow, but it'll have to be enough.

 

The End.  
Start over?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**17**

You appreciate Steve's offer, but for tonight, you want to continue what you already started with Clint. You thank him with a warm hand-clasp, then head toward Clint's rooms.

By the time you punch your access code into the door and make your way to the bedroom, Clint and Natasha have clearly been getting started. They're a breathtaking image together, both already nude. Clint lies on his back, the arm with a wrist brace safely back and away from the main action; Natasha straddles him, her mouth sucking a pattern on his throat that's making his toes curl. You almost hate to interrupt them.

"Room for one more?" you ask, and their gazes fly over to you. Natasha sits back up, resting her ass on Clint's thighs, and licks her lips in a deliberate gesture. (Those lips, you notice, are just as pink and enticing as her perfect nipples.)

You step in, shedding your clothes as you approach the bed. You've scened with them before, but not tonight; tonight is about reaffirming connection, about reassuring Clint that he's safe and adored, about reminding Natasha that she finally has a place to call home. You don't even hesitate to pull off your undershirt, revealing the mess of scar tissue on your chest, because you know that they've seen it and don't mind.

 _Family_ , you think, climbing up on the bed to greet each of them with a lingering kiss. It's not just Natasha who's learning this lesson: in this place, with these gorgeous and wounded souls, you've found a real home.

 

The End.  
Start over?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**18**

You're well past the adolescent glee of _I get to sleep with Captain America!_ , but you still savor your times alone with Steve. He's physically stunning, yes, but he's also achingly young for the responsibility he's been given, and it satisfies something deep inside you to lift some of the burdens from his shoulders.

(And God, does he have some shapely shoulders.)

The two of you walk to his quarters hand-in-hand, sharing quiet smiles at the incongruous innocence of it. Steve's generally more private about his affections, but no less genuine with them. When the bedroom door's shut behind you, he turns and meets you for a lingering kiss; his lips are as soft as his hands, the serum preventing calluses or chapping. You lean in, exploring his mouth; it still tastes faintly of tomato and oregano, with a sharp scent of ozone lingering from the battle.

Steve guides you to the bed, laying you down and unbuttoning your shirt, and you let yourself be led. It's good to feel safe letting go, to know that Steve can protect you from any harm and guide you effortlessly into pleasure. You touch each other without urgency; on your side, at least, you're soaking in the perfection of his form, the way that skin and muscles and bone glide across each other in a flawless symphony. As for him -- well, you try not to think about that too hard. You know you're a skilled top, good at constructing and coordinating scenes, but it's hard to know what Steve gets out of moments like this, when he has so many other options with prettier faces and more flexible limbs.

As if he senses your thoughts, Steve pulls away from your lips and bites lightly at your earlobe, shimmying the last of your clothing off you. "Do you have any idea how much I've missed you?" he murmurs, voice rough and luscious. "You're the most irreplaceable one of us."

You still don't quite believe him, but you're willing to go along with it for now, and you suppose that's something.

"Here," he says, turning you to rest on your hands and knees, then guiding a pillow underneath your hips. "Let me hear your voice?"

As he slicks up his fingers, then gently works your ass open, you talk to him -- how good his hands feel on you, how much you want him inside you, all the dirty talk that Steve flushes at saying but loves to hear. By the time that he slides into you, his arms warm and firm on either side of you, you can't deny that right now, this is where you both want to be.

Some nights, that's exactly enough.

 

The End.  
Start over?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**19**

By the time that you and Pepper have headed to the communal dining room, all the Avengers in town have arrived. Steve and Tony look slightly banged up from their fight, with a few fresh bruises coloring Tony's skin, but they seem well otherwise. Clint's more visibly injured, wearing a cast on his wrist and a plethora of bandages; still, he seems alert and cheerful, even a tad manic, as he chats with Natasha.

Part of you wonders whether your team would be in better shape if you'd helped them directly, instead of waiting here; the rest of you knows that they'll be a stronger team for learning to resolve threats without you, and that the relatively minor injuries are proof of the fact that they don't need you to play mother hen.

You settle down with them and devour a couple slices of pizza margherita, surprised at how much of an appetite your time with Pepper worked up. As everyone finishes up their meals, though, Steve turns to you. "Pepper texted us earlier. She said you might be interested in some . . . ah, personal attentions?"

You're busy figuring out exactly how to respond, when Tony interjects, "He means that the rest of us would love to have you for dessert. You game?"

Sometimes (not that you'll ever admit it), Tony's directness can be useful. Still, you pause. You've had intimate encounters with everyone in the room, at this point, but you haven't tried putting everyone in the same place at once before. The mere logistics of six naked bodies are making your head spin.

Clint, always the most perceptive, leans toward you with a knowing look. "You won't have to top us all, or any of us, unless you really want to. We'll figure out the details. You just sit back --"

"-- Or kneel down, or spread open, or whatever position you enjoy most --" Tony interjects.

"-- and we'll do the work," Clint finishes, shooting Tony an amused glare.

"And you're sure. . ."

"Yes," Steve cuts you off, "we're sure. You deserve to let go and be appreciated sometimes."

With that, Natasha pulls a velvet-lined leather blindfold from some hidden spot, stands, and approaches you. "Are you in?" she asks. You know that tone of voice, the tone of neutral questioning that promises you a safe reception no matter what your response; it's been trained for interrogation, but that doesn't stop it from being effective.

"I'm in," you say. It takes a conscious act of will, even in this safe space, to close your eyes and let her hands buckle the blindfold around your head. Once it's fastened, though, she places a hand at the base of your spine, firm and cool, and the familiarity of her touch grounds you against the sudden surge of vulnerability.

"That's right, Лапушка," Natasha says soothingly. "I've got you."

"We all do," Clint says, his hand joining hers on your back.

Flanking you like that, the two of them guide you to a bedroom, their touches so steady that you never take an uncertain step. The others follow, and when they start to undress you, you begin to lose track of which touch is whose. One pair of hands unbuttons your shirt; another slides the belt nimbly from your pants; another places two thumbs at the base of your skull, massaging gently to soothe you while you're stripped.

The experience only ramps upward from there. The others pamper and pleasure you, immersing you in a flood of sensation so strong and flawless that you find yourself letting go and riding it fearlessly. At one point, you're pretty sure that Steve's holding your hands behind you as you sit back against his chest, and Clint's fucking himself on your cock, and wet lips are teasing your nipples, and strong fingers are stroking your balls, and it's too much, too perfect, too good. You strain to hold off orgasm for as long as you can -- not on anyone's command, but because you want this rush to continue forever.

But even when it crests, and you come so hard you lose track of reality for a few minutes, it's okay. Everything's okay. You can just lean back, feel Steve's kiss on the nape of your neck, hear the pleased murmurs of this chosen family of yours, and know that you couldn't have a more perfect end to the evening than this.

 

The End.  
Start over?

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> My fabulous recipient requested, for pairings, "I am all about the ot7. My favorite things are when the whole team loves each other and occasionally gets together for really hot sex. I am also all about the following: Phil/Clint, Phil/Steve, Phil/Nick, Phil/Natasha/Clint, Phil/Pepper."
> 
> A sane person would thus have picked one of those possibilities and written a fic about it. I am apparently not a sane person. :-D Hope you've enjoyed anyway, darling!
> 
> Many thanks to ladydeathfaerie and allochthon for betaing and cheerleading, and to thewaywardtexan for the best Christmas gift ever.
> 
>  **Detailed warnings** (note that many of these only appear as a brief mention; if you need to know in advance whether something will be triggery, feel free to e-mail me at gmail as "sinope"): Canon-typical violence, sex while on painkillers (but still lucid), service submission, foot worship, cunnilingus, comeplay, threesomes (m/m/m and m/m/f), power exchange, sex toys (dildo), light bondage, fingering, masturbation, prostate play, orgasm delay/control, anal sex, rimming, fellatio, frottage, painplay, come eating, humiliation, nipple play, orgy/group sex, blindfolds


End file.
